Underground
by magfreak
Summary: In search for an adventure, Sybil steals away from her family's London home during her debut season and goes for a ride on the London Underground, where she meets an intriguing young man.


_This is a story that combines two prompts. One was sent anonymously a long, long time ago (apologies to whomever sent it for taking so long). It requested a story in which Sybil and Tom meet on the subway. I held on to it this long because I really wanted to make it a period story because I liked the idea of Sybil sneaking off to ride the London Underground, but I couldn't really think of the best way to do that until I got the other prompt that this story emerged from. That was from dorkout, who is celebrating a birthday October 4 and who asked for a story that takes place during Sybil's season in London in which she already has a beau but has heard head turned by a certain someone. _

_In this universe, Tom is a mechanic/chauffeur but he does not work for the Crawleys. Other than that, you can assume that everything that happened to Sybil on the show up to just before her season (i.e. everything through episode six) still happened. She still dressed in the harem pants and she still snuck off to the count, which led to her getting injured. In this case the chauffeur was Pratt, but he is not political and the family did not blame him, as it was obvious that the scheme was Sybil's alone. Her beau is Tom Bellasis, who has been her friend since childhood. This begins a couple of days before Sybil's presentation and a week before her ball. _

* * *

**June 1913**

"Sybil . . . Sybil . . . SYBIL!"

Sybil turned to her lifelong friend, Tom Bellasis, from her chair near a window in the parlor of her family's London home on St. James Square. "What?" She said casually, as if he hadn't been trying to get her attention for several minutes.

"You seem a bit lost is all," he said with a smile.

_Not lost—bored_, Sybil thought. But instead of saying anything aloud she simply smiled back.

He'd been watching her for a while, trying to discern her mood. As children and even in their early adolescence, he could read her so easily, but as adulthood neared, she'd grown and changed. She was restless and curious about the world in a way that he knew others found discomfiting. She was no longer an open book to him. In moments like this, it was as if he didn't know her at all, and it worried him.

"Are you nervous?" He asked.

"What do I have to be nervous about?"

Tom smiled. "You're being presented at court on Saturday. I should think you have a great deal to be nervous about."

Sybil laughed and turned toward the window again. "I'm curtseying, not discussing matters of state," she said with a sigh. "The king is just a person. I've been introduced to people before."

Tom laughed. "Heavens, Sybil! It's his majesty, the king of England. You can hardly think he is just a _person_."

She looked back at him with a frown. "Actually, I can. I'll admit, if I must, that he is of a higher station and office than I am, but he is still a person at the end of the day. Physiologically, he is no different from you, and only differs from me in that he is a man. Tom, the moment we begin to think ourselves as fundamentally different from one another is the moment we grant ourselves permission to treat other people as less than human. I suppose as a woman I have a greater understanding of what that means than you."

Tom rolled his eyes. "Sybil don't start on about the vote again."

Sybil turned back to the window. "I haven't started anything. You brought it up."

With a sigh, Tom stood up and walked over to where she was. Sybil looked determinedly out the window, and he smiled at her stubbornness, a trait with which he was most familiar, it having manifested in her very early in life. He kneeled next to her chair and took her hand. "Darling, you know I support you in this, but there is a time and a place for such discussions."

"Somewhere such talk won't actually make a difference," Sybil said with a sad smile.

"And here I thought we'd have a nice morning together," he said.

Sybil forced a smile. "I know. I'm sorry."

She looked into his lovely brown eyes and her expression softened, the smile growing genuine as she remembered that Tom Bellasis, unlike the rest of her family, was patient and kind with her when it came to her love of politics and support of women's rights. He'd also been generous with his education, sharing with her books and essays he'd read during his school days and in his first two years at Oxford. In two more years' time, upon his graduation, they'd likely be married. It had never been spoken aloud between them or their parents, but all lived under the assumption that it would happen. And though she was loathe to admit it, for she cared for him deeply as a friend, the inevitability of it was starting to feel a bit suffocating.

Sybil knew that she was unlikely to find a better match for herself within the boundaries of her parents' expectations. And she knew that he would _try _to make her happy. What she didn't know was whether he would succeed. Because despite his willingness to indulge her interests, he was happy living within those boundaries, which she had come to find so stifling—he was happy in a way that she knew she would never be. As dear to her as Tom had always been, accepting that she'd be his wife was starting to feel like a concession in a battle she didn't yet want to admit she was losing.

Trying to push those thoughts from her mind, she asked, "Shall we go for a walk? I believe there is an event today at St. George's Church in Bloomsbury that might be of interest."

"What's that?"

"Well," Sybil started slowly, not wanting to show how eager she was to attend. "It's a memorial for Emily Davison, the suffragette who died at the Epsom Derby last year. Today is the anniversary of the event."

Tom sighed. "The fool who ran into the path of a charging horse?"

"She was trying to get people's attention!"

"Sybil—"

"Tom," Sybil interjected, "when someone's asleep, sometimes he'll wake if you merely tap gently on the shoulder, and sometimes, you have to throw cold water on his face."

"That's a forgiving way of describing Pankhurst's methods," he said with laugh.

"Do you want to go or not?" Sybil asked taking her hand out of his.

"I'd love to, darling," he said, standing up, "but I'm afraid I told our fathers I'd join them for lunch at the club."

"All right, then."

He smiled, as she went back to looking out the window. "Why don't you go out anyway? I happen to know that Lady Darlington hosts her own group of suffragettes at the tearoom at Selfridge's for lunch every Thursday. I may or may not have garnered you an invitation."

"What?" She exclaimed, standing.

He pulled a small envelope out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her. Sybil took the envelope and turned it over in her hands without saying a word.

"I thought you'd be pleased," he said quietly, a bit disappointed in her reaction.

"I am," she said. "I just . . . I want to do more for the cause than be seen on Oxford Street."

"Think of it this way," he said, putting his hands on her shoulders, "you can show your support for the cause, and your parents won't be put off. It's the best of both worlds."

Sybil smiled, though again it was one that did not quite reach her eyes. But he couldn't tell. Not anymore.

"I should be going," he said, leaning in a kissing her forehead. "I'll see you at dinner tonight."

Sybil nodded and watched him go. She looked down at the invitation again. It _was _the best of both worlds. The problem was there was only one world she was interested in.

**XXX**

She wasn't especially excited about attending Lady Darlington's tea, but she supposed that staying in the house would do nothing to improve her mood. So it was that a short while later, Sybil left on foot. Her mother had offered to have the chauffeur take her, but Sybil insisted she wanted to walk and Cora didn't want the likely ensuing argument to dampen Sybil's desire to be social with the right people. And indeed, Sybil set off from the square toward Piccadilly with every intention of heading toward Oxford Street, but upon reaching the corner of St. James Street and Piccadilly, she changed her mind.

Sybil waved down a taxi and asked the driver to take her to Selfridge's and to wait at the door, as she would not be staying. She walked into the shop and headed over to the restaurant, where she flagged down a waiter. She asked him to tell the hostess of the women's tea that she'd arrived with every intention of staying, but felt faint on stepping out of the car and decided to go home. She watched from the door into the tea room as the waiter relayed her message. The woman who was presumably Lady Darlington—Sybil had never actually met her—only nodded in response.

That done, Sybil ran back to the taxi and asked the driver to take her to Piccadilly Circus. She knew she could have asked him to take her straight to the church where the rally would take place in Miss Davison's memory, but it occurred to Sybil as she remounted the motor that she'd never been on the Underground before, and having excused herself from what she was sure would be another boring afternoon, she felt the thrill of freedom and thought it was the perfect day for a new adventure.

Although she felt nervous as she rode the lift down to the platform, as soon as she stepped out onto it, excitement began to course through her. She watched with great interest as men and women of all ages, working and middle-class people, walked and talked with clear purpose and direction.

How she longed to be one of them.

Sybil understood that the comfortable and privileged life that she lived was one that people who worked for a living might long for, and she didn't begrudge those who were born with less such longings. Still, the idea of learning a trade, of going to a job, of doing something that helped people in need (beyond donating last season's clothes) sparked Sybil's imagination. Speaking of such things to her family and even Tom, her oldest and best friend, resulted in funny looks and assurances that soon enough those ideas would fade and she would settle into a contented life of charity luncheons and dinner parties.

Tom was more understanding, but despite his best efforts to appease her, she knew he didn't agree. She loved them all dearly, and for their sake she held it in, but sometimes, it couldn't be helped and the energy that came from such wishes had to be acted on. That had been true on the night of the count, and it was true today.

When her train finally came, she stepped on it eagerly and looked around. The car was mostly empty. Sybil moved to grab one of the railings, just as the train lurched forward. The movement caught her by surprise, and she lost her balance and fell onto the floor.

"Are you all right?"

A young man, perhaps twenty-four or twenty-five, walked over from where he'd been sitting at the end of the car and leaned down to offer his hand. Such was the blueness of his eyes that Sybil was caught quite off guard and didn't respond for a few moments.

"Do you need help, miss?" He asked again, a smile forming on his face that did nothing to help Sybil's present inability form words.

"Oh, um, yes . . . thank you," she finally spit out, taking his hand. With his other, he took her elbow so she could lean on him as she got her feet under her again.

"First time rider?" he asked with a bit of a teasing tone in his voice.

"I'm afraid I am," Sybil answered quietly, letting him go now that she had found her footing and grabbing a nearby railing.

"Oh. I was actually joking."

Sybil blushed and looked away, feeling somewhat embarrassed.

"Sorry," he said, somewhat sheepishly.

"For what?"

The young man shrugged. "Making assumptions."

"I should be glad if I don't look as out of place as I feel."

Having shaken the dust off her gloves and skirt, Sybil looked up and got her first real look at the young man who had come to help her. Along with those piercing blue eyes, he had light-brown hair with a few honey-colored strands that she imagined looked much lighter out in the sun than they did now. He was wearing a grey suit and cap that, while very becoming, were obviously not of the fine materials that she was used to seeing on her father.

"Tom Branson," he said, sticking out his hand to shake hers.

She took it with a smile and answered, "I'm Sybil."

He gestured toward an open seat behind her, and Sybil smiled and took it. Though he did not sit next to her, he did not go back to his spot, remaining instead in the middle of the car with his eyes trained on her.

"So if this is your first time riding the Underground," he said, "Can I assume you don't live in London?"

Sybil nodded. "You can. I live up north, in Yorkshire."

"And what are you doing in London, then?"

Sybil hesitated. What could she say that wouldn't scare him away or make her sound ridiculous? Certainly, she didn't want to mention the wretched season.

She finally settled on "visiting family" and in hopes that he would not inquire further when she answered, she quickly followed up with, "And you? You're a long way from Ireland."

He grinned at her recognition of his accent in a way that she found entirely too appealing.

"My brother lives here. I just arrived a month ago. I'm staying with him while I look for work."

"And what kind of work do you do?" Sybil asked genuinely interested.

"Right now, I'm an automobile mechanic. I was a chauffeur for a rich old lady back in Ireland, but the job was a bit boring. She didn't let me drive faster than 20 miles per hour. I'd like to work in politics someday, if I'm honest. At least, I like to think I won't always be a chauffeur."

Sybil laughed. "And no luck here just yet?"

"Not with regards to a job, but things are looking up in other areas," he said with a wink.

Sybil laughed at his obvious flirting, and he looked away smiling, as if the boldness had surprised even him. She liked such confidence. It wasn't often that she met—or was allowed to meet—someone who happily wore his feelings on his sleeve. The reserve and stoicism required of people in her circles was so exhausting to her that she sometimes wondered how they didn't collapse under the weight of so many pent up emotions.

"So where are you off to?" he asked after a minute. "I've been rather selfishly taking your attention. I hope I haven't caused you to miss your stop."

"Oh," Sybil said suddenly startled, realizing that she had not, in fact, been paying attention to where or if the train had stopped. "I'm looking for the Holborn station. I'm going to St. George's Church in Bloomsbury for a women's rights rally."

His already smiling face brightened. "What a coincidence!"

Sybil's brow crinkled. "You're going to a suffragettes rally?"

"Why should you doubt it?"

"I don't know. I _suppose _you could be telling the truth. Or you could just be saying it because you like my company."

He laughed and raised his eyebrows at _her _boldness. Sybil sat up a little straighter, proud that she appeared to be having the same effect on him that he was having on her.

"I am telling the truth," he said, still smiling. "I'll prove it."

He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a small pin that read, "Votes for Women."

Sybil blushed. "That'll teach _me _to make assumptions."

Tom extended his hand to give her the pin. "Take it," he said

"It's all right," she said. "I don't need to touch it to believe you."

"No, I mean . . . take it," he said more quietly. "I'm giving it to you—unless you already have your own."

"Really?" Sybil said taking it excitedly. "I don't have one, as a matter of fact. My father, um—well, he doesn't have much patience for my politics and wouldn't dare let me have something like this in the house."

He smiled happy at how pleased she was. She immediately set the pin on her lap and took her gloves off so she could place it on the lapel of her coat. In doing so, however, she pricked her finger.

"Ouch!" She exclaimed.

"Here, let me help," he said, and before Sybil could protest, he had taken the pin from her and leaned over to put it on where she had intended. As he did so, he remained focused on his task so he didn't notice right away that their faces were only inches apart. Sybil did, of course, and wondered if he'd be able to notice, as he fastened the pin over her heart, just how fast it was beating under his fingers.

Once he was done he smiled. "There you are," he said, turning his face. It was then that he saw how close they were. He cleared his throat and immediately straightened up.

"Apologies," he said, "that was rather inappropriate of me."

"It's all right," she said quietly, as she ran her fingers over the pin. "Thank you."

They looked into one another for a long moment, but the train coming to a stop pulled them out of it.

"Looks like two more stops to Holborn," he said, gesturing toward the train car doors.

"Would you mind walking with me to the church?" Sybil asked.

Tom's eyes widened. "Not at all."

"You don't have to," Sybil said quickly. "It's only that I've never been there before, and I'd hate to miss it because I got lost."

"And we can't have that."

Sybil smiled.

"Have you been to many rallies before?"

"A few," Sybil answered. "My family doesn't like me going, so, I can't as often as I would like."

"Well, if we were all born happy with our station and accepting of the world as it is, that wouldn't make humans a very interesting species, would it?"

"No. It's not that I need them to agree with me about everything—just agree that I'm allowed to be different form them."

"So agree to disagree?"

"Something like that."

"What things are there to do in Yorkshire?" he asked. "Other than sneak away to rallies."

"Not much that's very interesting I'm afraid. I do so like London in that regard. Full of interesting places to see and interesting people to meet."

Sybil had noticed the phrasing of his question—what was there to do, rather than what do _you_ do. She supposed that even her plainest coat and hat would not have hidden the delicateness of her hands, the clear poshness of her accent. He seemed observant—there was no way he'd mistake her for a working person, but if he'd assumed she was of high birth, he said or did nothing to give that away or suggest that it bothered him. Sybil was grateful for the chance to be only herself.

In truth, Tom Branson had met and worked for people in the peerage before. They were easy to spot, especially when out of their own natural milieu, as she clearly was. That was what had sparked his curiosity to begin with. And as their conversation went on she had only grown more interesting. There was no future in it, of course. He could see that from the moment her lovely blue eyes looked into his from where she'd fallen the dirty floor of the train car. But for a few precious minutes, what would be wrong with indulging himself in the company of a beautiful girl?

"How did you become interested in motors?" Sybil asked.

"When I was young, I was apprenticed to the groom on a country estate outside of Dublin. When the family bought their first motor, he didn't really take to caring for the vehicle, so it fell on me. There was some trial and error, but I enjoyed it."

"Do you like working with your hands?"

"I do," he said, "though I long for a mental challenge every once in a while. If I read my copy of On Liberty one more time, I'm afraid it will fall apart from overuse. Do you like to read?"

"Very much."

"I don't have access to a great deal of books now, but occasionally in my old job I was allowed to take on from the house library."

"Did the old rich lady share your taste for John Stuart Mill?"

Tom laughed. "Not at all. The books I was allowed to borrow were mostly novels to pass the time. On Liberty was given to me by my father before he died. It was his copy."

"I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "It's been some time now. And you? What do you like to read?"

"I've read mostly novels and poetry, myself," she said a bit sheepishly. "It was only when my—" she stopped short and looked up at him.

"Your what?"

She cleared her throat softly. "I didn't really go to school, but a friend of mine did and lent me some of the books and essays he was given to read once in a while. I know Mill supports women."

Tom looked down at the mention of _he_. She'd been about to call this "friend" something else, something that started with "my." He had told himself at the start that it would be nothing, but that didn't keep the sharp dagger out of his heart.

Sybil noticed the change in mood and wished she had not said anything at all. But still hoping that this was not the end of their conversation, she continued on, "Mary Wollstonecraft and Florence Nightingale are favorites of mine."

"I wouldn't guess they would go over well with your kind of people," he said without looking at her.

And there it was. The acknowledgement of the differences hinted at in their dress and manner and way of speaking.

Sybil thought back to earlier in the morning to her conversation with a different Tom.

"My family's opinions are not my own," she said, "but they are entitled to them, just as I am entitled to mine. They are only human. Like all men and women. . . . like you and me."

He turned toward her again at this, suddenly feeling guilty for his momentary anger at her inadvertent revelation that there was a man in her life who was not a random stranger on the Underground. It was silly, really—jealousy. What was there to be jealous of when this was only a chance meeting, a lifetime of adventure captured in a handful of minutes. There would be no tomorrow, she wasn't shoving him off and _he _wasn't here now.

He smiled again, setting her at ease. "Our stop is coming up."

Sybil smiled and nodded. She put her gloves on again and stood, and together, the two walked over to the doors, so they could step out as soon as they arrived at Holborn station.

After stepping out of the Underground station and onto the street, the mismatched pair made their way to the rally. Sybil asked on the way if he knew who would be speaking (he didn't) and, conscious of what had happened to her at the last such event she had attended, if he thought there might be violence.

"I doubt it," he said. "Unless the police are feeling especially frisky."

"The police?" Sybil said in surprise.

"They're the instigators as often as not, even if they are never blamed for it. It's easier to dismiss an opinion when those who are expressing it can be made to seem barbaric."

"Or foolish," she said quietly, almost to herself.

"What?"

_The fool who ran into the path of a charging horse?_

Sybil remembered Tom Bellasis' words and felt a small pang in her heart.

"Why should we listen to the fool who runs into the path of a charging horse?" She said aloud.

"Exactly," Tom said with a smile. "Miss Davison knew what she was doing. The people had to be made to wake up—"

"So she threw water on them," Sybil finished for him, causing him to laugh lightly.

"In a matter of speaking," he said. "Perhaps you should get up on the platform to speak."

"I hardly have the necessary oratory skills or intellect."

"Maybe not _yet_, but you seem to have the enthusiasm—that counts for more than you think."

She laughed. "You have more confidence in me, having just met me, than anyone else I know."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

His words and tone caught her off guard. She'd have spoken up to contradict him, but why when he was right?

"It's good that you're here," he continued. "And that you care. You shouldn't let other people tell you different or tell you that you do not deserve to be your own person. "

Sybil smiled, though internally a small piece of her heart broke, knowing that this day was likely their beginning and end. Somewhere there was another life to be lived, one that had been planned for her before she knew what any of it would mean.

The crowd was still gathering when they arrived, which allowed them to find a place to stand close to the small platform that had been erected in front of the church. Slowly, more and more people gathered, some holding signs, many of them wearing sashes, all of them solemn but unyielding. Sybil looked down at her pin and felt proud to be in such company. The solemnity of the start of the event soon gave way to motion and activity as the speakers launched into their speeches.

Standing in the warm June sunshine, Sybil felt grateful to be alive. She looked over at her companion. He was watching intently, nodding and clapping every so often. He was remarkably handsome, and yet she was most intrigued by who he could be. He'd given hints as to his background and his current state of employment, but she couldn't help but wonder what the future held for such a man. She thought about what kind of woman he'd marry, surely one as passionate and eager to live life as he.

_Would that I could be such a woman._

After an hour or so of speeches—Sybil had lost her sense of time, listening to the stirring calls for change—the event came to a close and the crowd began to disperse.

Tom took a pamphlet from someone and agreed to attend a meeting with them in the future, then turned back to Sybil.

"May I ask how you came to have an interest in women having the vote?" She asked.

"I'm a socialist and as such believe that the wealth of a nation and its means of production should be owned and shared equally by all people, not just a privileged few. It would be right nonsensical if I thought that, but applied it only to half the population."

Sybil thought for a moment. "It's funny how some people can so strongly oppose that which only makes sense, as you say. The women must have the vote, mustn't they? Why does the prime minister resist the inevitable?"

"Politicians can't often recognize the changes that are inevitable."

"Well, I hope you do go into politics. It's a fine ambition."

Tom laughed. "Ambition or dream? If I do, it's not all about women and the vote for me, nor even freedom for Ireland. It's the gap between the aristocracy and the poor."

"Well, you and I have managed to close a gap of sorts today, haven't we?" she asked, extending her hand.

"We have." Tom smiled, a bit sadly, taking her hand and shaking it. "So this is goodbye, then?"

Sybil sighed. "It's so long."

They held on to one another's hands for a moment, before Sybil let go and turned, heading toward the street, where she intended to hail a taxi. She'd made it to the curb when she turned and saw him still watching her from the spot she left him. She tried to think about the man she'd been raised to believe she'd love for the rest of her life but couldn't make way for the one who'd offered a hand on the Underground merely several hours ago. She realized how little someone like her knew of love, _true _love.

Without thinking, she ran back to Tom Branson, threw her arms around his neck and gave him a kiss unlike any she'd ever shared with Tom Bellasis. He was startled momentarily, but gave it to it by and by, wrapping his own arms around her waist so tightly that he lifted her clear off the ground. Even when her feet hit the pavement again, she felt like she was floating. After several long minutes, they finally pulled back, both of them out of breath.

"What was that for?" He asked in a whisper, his forehead still leaning against hers.

"For showing me the way here."

"Where's here?"

"Here is the rest of my life."

And just as quickly as she'd pounced on him, she let go and ran away again through the crowd and onto the street.

**XXX**

A few days ago, Lady Sybil Crawley, daughter of the Earl and Countess of Grantham Robert and Cora Crawley, and granddaughter of the Dowager Countess of Grantham Violet Crawley, had been presented to their majesties, King George V and Queen Mary of Teck. She'd curtseyed, walked out backwards (one did not turn her back on their majesties) without stepping on her train, and now she was a young lady out in society. Tonight's ball marked that rite's official celebration. The food had been delicious, the champagne cold and sweet, the music enchanting—everything as it should be in any young girl's dream.

Sybil would be lying if she said she hadn't enjoyed herself at least some on this day. Her sisters, so often at odds, had spent the morning with her to share in her excitement. Her father had allowed her to order a number of new books for the Downton Abbey library and indulged her "overly political" selections with minimal commentary. Tom Bellasis had gone with her on a visit to the British Museum as he'd promised and bought her a lovely pearl broach that was currently pinned on her white dress (beneath which, on the underside of her corset, pressed against her skin, was another, simpler pin that read, "Votes for Women").

So sitting alone in the garden just outside of the grand ballroom where everyone she knew was celebrating her arrival into adulthood and society, Sybil had to admit to herself that if she chose this life, she wouldn't necessarily be unhappy. She would cling to its predictable charms and avoid its nuisances. She would find something useful to do for herself, and the oppressive feeling she sometimes felt of being a painted bird in a gilded cage would likely fade with time. She knew all of that to be true. Just like she _didn't _know whether choosing a different kind of life would offer any happiness at all.

But she wanted to see for herself. She was sure of it now. More than a week had gone by since her fateful visit to St. George's in Bloomsbury, and the match that had been struck had not only not ceased to burn, it had grown in intensity and heat.

She was at the pinnacle of a life that she didn't want, and despite all efforts to convince herself otherwise, she was more sure than ever than she didn't want it. The descent from this pinnacle would be hard, but it was a journey that she needed to embark on. This was an odd moment to find the resolve to do so, but she needed to see everything she would miss before she could be sure she was willing to give it all up. She was, and it was all going to start now.

"There you are?"

Sybil turned and saw Tom Bellasis.

_The first step was always going to be the hardest_, she told herself.

"I was wondering where you got off to," he said approaching her.

"I'm glad you came to find me. I, um, I have something I want to ask, and I didn't want to do it inside."

"Oh?"

Sybil took a deep breath. "I know that there is, between us, an unspoken understanding about . . . the future."

Tom grinned. "Yes."

Sybil felt as if her heart was in her throat, but she pressed on. "Well, it's something that's always just been there, but there hasn't ever been a question. I've never been asked what I thought, and—"

Tom laughed. "Oh, Sybil!"

"What?"

Before she knew what he was doing, he kneeled in front of her.

"No, Tom, please, this isn't—"

The blood was rushing to his head and he didn't quite hear her words, so he took both of her hands said, "Lady Sybil Crawley, will you do me the honor of . . . "

Tom Bellasis never finished his sentence because when he finally looked into her eyes he saw what he hadn't seen in several years. He saw _her_. And he saw what her answer would have been if he'd asked the question.

_No._

He stared at her, through her, as if looking for a trace of something that hadn't been there for some time. Finally, he looked down at their joined hands and let her go. He stood feeling disoriented.

"Tom, I'm sorry," she said quietly.

"Me too," he said without looking at her. "You should come back inside."

And with that he was gone.

Sybil let out a sob once he was gone and let herself cry for several minutes, not because she was sad but because she was overwhelmed with relief.

**XXX**

**July 1913**

"You wanted to see the new chauffeur, my lord."

Robert Crawley looked up from his desk and turned to his butler. "Yes, indeed. Please send him in."

A young Irishman with piercing blue eyes and light-brown hair with honey-colored strands bounded into the room.

"Come in, come in," Robert said. "Good to see you again. Branson, isn't it?"

"That's right, your lordship."

* * *

_Yes, I've marked this complete. But you know that doesn't always mean I'm done ;)_

_Edited to correct monarchs King George and Queen Mary, who ascended to the throne in 1910. Thanks to the Guest who pointed it out!_


End file.
